Two heavyset hands clasped Hanor tight in the dark. Strong and unforgiving, snatching him from slumber, it took a few desperate moments for him to realise what was happening. Struggling, the intruder’s stale breath filled his lungs. Clamping over his mouth, the palm of a cold hand suppressed any resistance, horrified when carried out of his room. Faint stirrings of Nole asleep on the floor came to nothing, his brother oblivious to this invasion. Kicking out, but with a quick flip and readjustment, Hanor was rolled up like a rug, a forceful arm reaching round to fasten his legs. A chuckle emanating from his aggressor spoke volumes, like someone familiar playing a trick.
“Be silent my young apprentice,” said a calm, hoarse voice in his ear.
Unable to answer, Hanor waited for another opportunity to break free, shocked when they turned left down the main stairwell. Eyes adjusting through the dimness, his mind raced when they reached the bottom. Making out familiar pictures and banners, they worked their way silently along the main corridor. The whole place was deathly quiet. How could someone enter undetected and just whisk him away like this? Struggling again, twisting and turning, the vice-grip tightened.
“You need not fear your eminence,” his captor insisted, retaining a firm hold. “This has been long overdue.”
The doors to outside were already open, suspicion now replacing fear, detecting this intruder knew him well. Out in the open, the cool whispering breeze heckled him, a laughing witness to this diabolical invasion. Trying to see his foe, an ear and part of a square jaw were just discernible in the half-light. Twisting and buckling again, but such meagre efforts were futile. Confident the Nightwatch would come to his aid, whoever it was would never get away with this.
Perched up on the wall, peering down unconcerned, a small group of guards waited, an audience to this illuminating spectacle. What was going on? Why were they not helping?
“Help me,” he tried screaming, a pathetic muffle the only thing escaping through a temporary muzzle. Shocked, laughter was the only thing trickling down in greeting. What was happening?
The main gates to the High-house grounds were ajar too, open like beckoning hands to his doom. Shadowed faces on the wall were watching, mocking this predawn display. Passing through, the laughter behind increased to fits of hilarity, those of the High-guard evidently aware of something he was not.
“Have we guessed yet… as to what this is about?” the subtle voice said in his ear.
An accent known to the Cropping Villages of the south, traces of his words were recognisable but Hanor still could not place them. Numb, coated by apprehension, his mind was a blur to any calm logic. The cold, calculating hand continued smothering his mouth, unrelenting in its intentions. Whoever it was knew his cry would bring guards from other quarters to his rescue, or would they?
Passing down the main causeway, closed windows and doors on either side were as uninterested by his predicament as the sleeping inhabitants inside. Inns, storehouses and dwellings were disquieting in appearance, at peace from the bustling activities of the approaching dawn. The whole place was eerie. Not until they veered left and crossed the open ground towards the recently built training camp did it dawn on Hanor who this intruder was. Those detached words fell into place, knowing who and why. Finally, he relaxed. In response, the hand was removed from his mouth.
“I suspect… you know what this is about at last,” said the raspy words of Rainer, Manson’s second in command.
From the relief, anger burst forth from the Heir of Manson. “What… what is going on? Why are you treating me this way? How dare you? Put me down…!” The hand clasped over his mouth again to shut out the protests.
“Are we finished yet?” Rainer said, unimpressed by the outburst.
With little choice but to stop his objections, Hanor was most thankful when the hand was removed. Setting him down on his feet, they stood outside a low stone building that ran away behind. Turning, facing his father’s aid and second hand, he knew this would not be taking place without permission. A wry smile greeted him with a curt nod, Hanor estimating it was still sometime before sunrise.
“I do not believe… this is happening,” he said, looking around for any spectators.
Rainer did not say anything, staring at him as if to measure his worth. Not a man of many words, ‘but as dependable as iron’ Hanor’s father would often say, there was a glimmer in his eye that Hanor did not like.
“Could this not have waited until later… or at least allowed me to get dressed?” His nightclothes were far from adequate for the morning chill, shivers running through him.
Without a word, Rainer turned and reached for something behind. Before Hanor could utter a word, a large bucket of icy cold water poured over him like a biting knife slashing at every part of his body.
“What…!” he screamed, paralysed and outraged. “I do not… believe…,” he gasped, catching his breath. Soaked through, the numbness nullified all senses.
Glaring at the older, larger man standing in front, enticing him to lash out, to come out fighting with fists ablaze, the young heir could read it in his eyes. In that moment, Hanor knew his childish ways were about to be burnt out of him. No more pampering, no soft approach or mother for protection. Brandor’s advice echoed like a repetitive parent. “Do not shy away, learn as much as you can, for your life may depend on it.”
Temper subsiding, the anger drifted away with the approach of this newly acquired insight. Imagining what he must look like, a chuckle followed to his kidnapper’s obvious surprise, Rainer’s eyebrows lifting at this unexpected reaction. A tame smile turned to laughter, both appreciating the ridiculous setting.
Nuzzling him awake, the stale odour of Tunder's breath infiltrated the sereneness of the Dai-laman’s sleep. Disgruntled at first, Brandor stopped upon recognizing his Kyboe’s concerns. Sitting up, he strained for any direct threats prowling in the half-light. With the sun still lingering below the horizon, the morning dew clung to his light blanket, the sodden atmosphere soaking up any sounds. Accepting Tunder’s senses were far superior to his own, something was on the move.
“Movement,” came the impression in his mind.
Still undercover of the low-lying branches, Brandor peered out. A fine layer of mist seemed determined to hold precedence over the lush wild-grass at his feet. Long moments passed before sounds of a moving cart emerged through the quiet. A fully laden merchant’s wagon trundled along the way. Two heavyset kyboes were pulling it, plodding from side to side. Stocky, the bearded fellow sitting unperturbed at the reins was whistling cheerfully, large bundles wrapped in skins bulging behind him. Intermittent bumps in the beaten track kept trying to unhinge him from his contentment, but his load held and he seemed unconcerned.
Packing away his mat, the Dai-laman stayed tuned to the approaching wagon. Returning from a successful trip to the southern regions, the man’s mood showed it. “Probably expecting to sell his wares at Manson,” Brandor thought, but Tunder’s apprehension did not shift.
Feeling a conviction warning him of something yet to be seen, it was unlike him to hesitate but the Dai-laman stayed his position. So early in the turn, the hunch forewarned of potential trouble. Undercover of the tree, and standing behind a few large bushes, the cart drew level to his position, stopping as it did. Certain he could not be seen, but the burly figure stood up and looked around, suspicious.
“I know someone is there,” bellowed the stranger, confident he was right. “For nothing escapes the senses of Billor.”
Brandor waited.
“Do you have something to hide?” came the knowing question, highlighting it was not his fears or an excitable mind playing tricks. Gawping in the Dai-laman’s direction, a beckoning hand proved that he did know.
Trying to read the large man’s features across the way, something kept gnawing at Brandor. Loud and well at ease, unmoved that danger of some degree could be preparing an ambush, Tunder’s earlier suspicions now appeared well-founded. Suspecting the man was veiling something sinister, capabilities worthy of respect even, Brandor trusted his intuition and decided to step out into the open anyway. Tunder followed, eyeing up the two forbidding Kyboes.
“See,” the man said, triumphant, indicating them with his arm. “Nothing is missed by Billor.” Talking to his kyboes as if they could understand what he was saying, a snort and grunt signalled that the two burly animals could do just that.
Checking for dark motives, but if there were any, they stayed hidden behind the wide smile as Brandor approached. Daylight was increasing, permitting him to see the big fellow’s eyes and any glimmer of treachery. Frequent chirps piped out from the local wildlife, a battle cry for the duel about to take place.
“It is always pleasing to meet new faces on one’s travels,” the large man greeted. “Even if they be shy at first.”
Brandor moved nearer still. “One can never be too careful,” he said, searching the fellow’s deep-seated eyes. A full black beard camouflaged any twitches that were a common indicator of hidden agendas. Unable to shake loose the suspicion, the Dai-laman permitted the other to lead.
“There is nothing to fear if you keep your wits about you,” Billor said out loud, in case there were any other ears listening. “Only the odd thief from time to time, but it breaks up the monotony.”
Halting a few paces short, the man’s mannerisms did nothing to imply mistrust, but the warning signals would not shift. Careful not to leave himself open to those scrutinising eyes, the Dai-laman went to pat one of the enormous kyboes. Retracting his hand when the animal emitted an ominous growl, two pairs of dark round eyes on chunky oblong heads stared at him. Their sharp claws were quite unlike most kyboes, who had softer paw-like hands on the end of short, stubby arms. Charcoal skin looked equally disturbing. Now appreciating Tunder’s unease, he could not risk lingering for long.
“They do not like to be fussed,” their keeper said, proud. “I treat them fair and keep them lean, they know who is in charge. A little sensitive to strangers, that is all.”
“I accept your word on the matter,” the Dai-laman conceded, stepping back.
“My name is Billor as I have already declared, but who are you my friend?” he asked, doing his own inspecting.
“You can call me Bran,” Brandor replied, surprised at his own response.
“Bran is a good name.”
Not once since Brandor had stepped out from under the tree had this fellow taken his eyes from him, both parties appearing to recognise something in the other but unwilling to confront the issue unless forced.
“You have been busy,” the Dai-laman said, pointing at the goods in the wagon.
“Yes…, I travel far, working hard for a small wage. Buying and selling, a little bit of everything for everyone.” Glancing over at the travelling bags and rolled up mat on Tunder, “You journey light?”
“I always do.”
“You must live nearby then?”
“Quite close,” he said. The Sleep was not too far, it just depended on your view.
“I have just come up from Tilor and Fion before that. One has to earn his wage there for sure,” Billor said, laughing heartily at a particular event. “Yes, you cannot outwit a Fife.”
“I know,” Brandor said, Kifter being a classic example.
“I am off to Manson,” the merchant continued. “Has there been much happening…, for I take it that is where you are from?”
“It is always a busy place at the end of each wet season,” Brandor said, detecting a definite undercurrent.
“True enough, it is why I go there now.”
For the first time, Billor looked away like a Fliryn called by its master. Closing his eyes, inhaling as if detecting something in the air, a laugh erupted upon opening them when realising Brandor was watching him.
“Where is it you travel to my friend?” the merchant asked, chancing an innocent line of enquiry might detract them from what had been witnessed.
Taken aback, Brandor was now convinced that this mysterious character was to be avoided at any cost, the illusion of sincerity painted on by the beaming smiles and fine talk. The man’s motives were not where they should be. “I am heading south,” he said, turning, getting ready to leave.
“South?”
‘If he was an eye for the enemy, then he was not very good at it,’ Brandor thought, climbing into his saddle.
“I see you are in a hurry to leave rather than speak idle words to a lonely traveller?”
“I apologise,” Brandor said. “But I have to meet someone.”
“Ah… I see,” the big man said, eyebrows frowning, pinpointing a reason to continue their dialogue. “Do you have far to go?”
“Is anywhere ever near enough?”
Billor’s laugh was weak. Whatever he recognised in Brandor, the opportunity to find out more was about to end.
“Until another time,” the Dai-laman signalled before heading off.
Climbing down from the wagon to watch him go, Billor patted one of his kyboes. The beast snorted, agreeing with its Master’s thoughts. “Yes, my little ones,” he said, scratching his beard. “There is life in this land yet.”
“I have been looking for Hanor everywhere,” Nole cried in disbelief. “Do you not care?”
Turning towards her beloved son, Lizan managed to suppress her already charged emotions. “It is best for you to let him go,” she said, holding back her pain, wiping a tear before he could see it.
“You said that earlier,” Nole reminded her. “What do you mean by that?”
“I will explain everything in due time.”
“You are talking in riddles,” he protested. “Can you not talk to me as a man for once? I am not a boy anymore. We are talking about my brother…, your son. He has disappeared. You are not telling me what you know, what you are hiding.”
Torn between Nole’s pain and her fear of losing him as well, she knew he would not accept what had been agreed. What they had decided was for his sake as well as everyone’s. Unthinkable for him to let Hanor travel into the unknown without him, she could not afford to tell him.
“Listen to me,” she said, trying to instil conviction into her words. “You have to drop this.” Reaching out, he pulled away like a lover betrayed. “Let it go.” Sobs welled like earlier when he had first come bursting into her room, sick with worry. This was all too much. Wrenched inside, what else could she do but despair?
“Do not do this to me,” Nole pleaded. “You cannot expect me to allow this to filter away, as if he never existed.” Kneeling in front of his devoted mother, her tears moved him, but they were not enough of a deterrent. Convinced this whole mess had something to do with that old man they had seen leaving the Leisure Room, Hanor’s admission that he had met him by the lake was behind this. It all made sense, but facts were not forthcoming. Frustrated, his mother had answers but was not prepared to reveal them. “Has he gone somewhere…, is he in trouble? What could he have done to deserve all this secrecy? You are my own flesh and blood…, and still unable to trust my judgements.” Taking hold of her hands, trying to reach beneath her tears, he wanted her to feel compassion for his suffering. “Please…, talk to me. Tell me what you know.”
Sad and weary, her whole existence was now hanging in the balance. Touching his cheek, committed eyes stared back, longing for what she knew. How could she refuse him? Knowing it would destroy him to keep him here, imprisoned by her yearning to cling onto what was not hers. To love him was to give him that freedom to choose, had she not learnt from the past? More tears poured, there was nothing left to fight with. Verging on giving in, searching for the right words, Manon entered the room.
“Mother…!” Nole pressed, squeezing her hand, realising she was on the brink. His father’s presence would scupper any chance. He too had refused to move, rebuffing him earlier with, “Not now my son.”
Apologetic eyes longed to give him what he wanted, but the opportunity had gone.
“Mother!” Nole added, but it was no good.
Retracting her hand, Lizan’s sorry eyes relayed her compassion towards his needs. Shaking her head, she stood.
Manon’s glare probed the High-lady’s. Concurring that all was as it should be, this was much harder than they had envisioned.
Nole, still bent to the knee, tried to keep his temper. They were protecting him from something, a grim situation he would not be happy with. Now the two were together, they could lean on each other for support. Rising, frustrations surging, he faced his overprotective parents. Refusing to shed tears, it felt like confronting strangers.
“Openness is a treasure, and will grant you peace when shared wisely,” he said, reminding them of advice given in the past. Angry at his folly at being duped into a lie, not waiting for a response, he brushed by them, his whole world collapsing around him.
Easing down on the mat, aches in his back and legs jabbed Hanor as if lying on a bed of nails. Never experiencing such pain, the occasional knock or bang in the past had advocated life was not all fun, but this went way beyond that. Every part of his being was protesting at what he was forcing it to do. Sighing when settling down, even the makeshift bed under the rather hastily erected canopy was a welcomed reprieve from his first turn at the hands of Rainer. Shown only once how to construct it, stretching between two trees and two pegs on the ground, he laid down without a care for its reliability.
The turn’s events had passed brutally slow. A long period of ruthless training, he could scarcely remember his bitterly cold awakening at dawn that morning. Willing to accept the tender disciplines of other teachers compared to this animal, there was no counting how many bruises he now had. Agonising, the torment of learning to ride a Kyboe well had nearly killed him. Falling frequently, his guide had insisted he learn to fall correctly, promising it might save his neck. Arguing that at this rate he would not have a neck to save, but any complaints had fallen on deaf ears. Thinking he knew the basics, how wrong he had been. Pounding into the ground like a discarded bag, Rainer’s yells soon had him on his feet and running again, trying to remount whilst in motion. Falling and tripping many times, his tongue had never been so sharp.
Unconcerned, Rainer had shown little sympathy. Lifting him up and pressing him on, such coldness proved the man was determined to make or break him. Short periods of rest offered had granted little solace to the tender burning muscles and aching limbs. Even when his head had throbbed, his recently appointed Trainer would just stare at him as if pathetic.
Commanded to rid Hanor of his innocence, Rainer had made sure he knew it too. A number of times Hanor had screamed at his tormentor, storming off, refusing to take any more. Each time wrestled back to heel, eventually a stubborn resolve kicked in. Rising to the challenge not to give in to this creature snapping at his heels, they had sparred like rivals, trying to render the other as inadequate. Why that notion had surfaced was now lost, paying a terrible price for a stubbornness not of Hanor’s nature. Vague thoughts of Nole and Bane had drifted in, but another new trial had quashed any lasting affections.
A thumping heartbeat pulsing to its own hectic rhythm now blotted out any surrounding noise. What would his mother say? Oh father, what are you doing to me? What have I accepted? Brandor’s grinning features filled his thoughts, barracking him for daring to step into the adult world. Without resistance, he finally fell asleep.
When dusk fell, so too the rain, Brandor continued riding into the night, enduring yet another turn on the road. When reaching the brow of a familiar hill, he halted, checking all was as it should be. Peering down through thick shadows, the welcoming sight of Tilor stretched out below. Set between two opposing hillsides, the valley crossed east to west, following the flow of the terrain. Rich in life and produce, sheltered from most of the harsh dry winds from the withering savannas of Fifania to the south, it was a haven for many, creatures and people alike. Draining in from the surrounding regions, water collected into various sizeable pools, and was used to irrigate the region. A green oasis in the midst of this barren terrain, a bustling hive of activity it was.
Faint aromas wafted from below, tantalising most travellers that shared such views. Lamps indicated the Alehouses and Inns were open, glinting like the reflection of a clear night sky upon a lake. Cramped rooftops lined the main road, fanning out behind into minor streets. Clumps of trees populating the entire valley looked picturesque even in the dark. Sporadic shouts and shrieks of laughter accompanied the light breeze.
“How long will this last,” he said, envisioning burning rooftops. Tunder snorted, aware of the dangers lurking ahead. Expecting more suspicious figures like Billor here, he would have to be careful.
Entering one of Kifter’s favourite ‘activity houses’ as the Fife called them, the regular smell of ale and burning reed-bowls fi